© Copyright Geoffrey Byron Garwick. All Rights Reserved.
What is the price of winter –
All those summers dead and gone?
Half the buffet sits emptied,
The still sunlight’s gold, but wan.
No warmth left to be mirrored
In the ice-wrinkled lies of dawn.
Then, just when I’m a loyal thrall of gloom,
Some damned, scarlet-blurting cardinal
Wings to punctuate the tree-streaked blank of sky.
Or a six-yeared granddaughter whirls past,
Doing a roundoff with – count them –
One, two, back handsprings.
Where’s the consistency of theme or mood?
I want a refund, or, at least a recount.
Better yet – more thyme on my cold curry.
What is the price of winter –
All those summers dead and gone?
Half the buffet sits emptied,
The still sunlight’s gold, but wan.
No warmth left to be mirrored
In the ice-wrinkled lies of dawn.
Then, just when I’m a loyal thrall of gloom,
Some damned, scarlet-blurting cardinal
Wings to punctuate the tree-streaked blank of sky.
Or a six-yeared granddaughter whirls past,
Doing a roundoff with – count them –
One, two, back handsprings.
Where’s the consistency of theme or mood?
I want a refund, or, at least a recount.
Better yet – more thyme on my cold curry.
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